During the night, the voice returned to draw me from sleep. The voice spoke perfect and polished French with a slight Slavic accent. I almost gave myself over. It whispered very low the words I should say, the books I should write, the thoughts that were to guide me. I listened, fascinated. I agreed in silence. It raised me from my bed, led me by the hand towards the sheet of paper that had remained hopelessly blank for weeks. All I had to do, said the voice, was to sit down and take dictation from the voice. You will be given it all, it said. All you have to do is faithfully transcribe each night's silence: let the light stretch out, let the words resound in your most inner self. Then the voice pronounced the name of the woman I love. That was more than I could bear. I took my fountain pen and stabbed it right into the voice's face. A bloody stain covered the paper's whiteness, all of it, drowning the words. The voice disappeared at once. It has never returned.

Since then, I always wake up at the same time, imagining I hear a voice speaking perfect and polished French with a slight Slavic accent. I lend my ear to the night, but I hear only silence. I try to fall back to sleep, but it's impossible. Each night when I wake up, an unexplainable pain invades my face and, on the pillow beside me, I believe I see a red stain growing, growing... ready to drown me.